


Amnesia

by watsonsjumper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John has no idea whats going on, LITERALLY, M/M, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Is Not Okay, john has amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:52:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7858903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonsjumper/pseuds/watsonsjumper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have become involved. John now accepts the fact that he and Sherlock Holmes are in fact, a couple. But a car crash changes everything, and the effect may be devastating to a certain detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"John. Stay with me John." Sherlock rasps. His lungs feel like they are being crushed. Johns eyes struggle to look at Sherlock, to focus on him. To stay awake. Stay alive. He wills himself to stay alive.

"Sher....Sherlock..." He manages to get those words out.

"John look at me. Breathe." But John's eyes flutter and close. Sherlock reaches a hand over (very painfully) and checks his pulse. The cab is flipped over and the driver is dead or unconscious. John has lost a lot of blood and Sherlock is struggling to breathe with his chest feeling like its caving in on itself.

' **Breathe. Stay alive for John.** ' Sherlock thinks. He disappears into his mind palace for a last desperate breath of life.

" **Oh Sherlock...what ever will John do when you die? He'll cry. Especially now you both know.** " Moriarty says in a singsong voice. He is in a cage.

" **HE'S GOING TO DIE SHERLOCK!** " He screams through the iron bars.

"John." Is all Sherlock can say to him. He stumbles toward a door that leads to a roof. Sherlock is now standing on the roof of St. Bart's.

" **He's going to die Sherlock.** " Mycroft says, twirling an umbrella.

" **Think. How do you stop it?** "

" **Pressure.** "

" **Right. Then do it.** " He says. Sherlock is violently snapped back into reality, in the wrecked car. He looks over at John and the glass shard in his stomach. He places a hand on Johns face and pleads.

"John. Please stay alive. I need you. I'm so sorry." He places pressure around the glass shard. He knows it will stop the blood from coming out long enough for the ambulance to get there.

"I'm so sorry this happened to you John." Sherlock finally hears sirens in the distance and he wills them to come and save John.

' **Save John.** ' He thought. He feels a tear leak out of his eye and his eyes struggle to open. His lungs feel like the car itself is on top of them. The sirens are closer now.

"John." He takes one last breath before his eyes close.

-

"John."

Is the first word that comes out of Sherlock Holmes when he awakes. A sharp pain pierces his chest. He opens his eyes and looks at the constantly beeping monitor.

The morphine machine next to him is off. Sherlock groans and turns it on. He pumps as much of it into his body as possible to his veins. He clenches and stretches his hands, breathing hard. He finally turns it down to the lowest setting.

"John!" He rasps. A nurse with brown hair knocks on the door and smiles. She has sharp features and a skinny, small figure.

"You're finally awake, Mr. Holmes! How are we feeling?"

"Wheres John?! Is he...?" He asks her.

"Don't worry. Hes fine. Pain on a scale of one to ten."

"Six." ' **Eight.** '

"Alright. And can you tell me what happened?"

"Car crash. I need to see John."

"Hold on there. You have 4 broken ribs, a sprained wrist, and a nasty concussion. You aren't going anywhere." He takes a deep breath, but stops as soon as he feels it begin to ache. His wrist is wrapped, though he can't feel it. Sherlock feels pain in his head but he doesn't care. John is the only thing that matters.

"Is he awake?"

"No. I'll let you know when he does."

"What time is it?"

"10:30."

"Morning?"

"Yeah. Get some rest." The nurse leaves. ' **What are her weaknesses? She has children. 2. Wants more. Husband is dead.** ' He goes through everything he observed. Sherlock pushes the call button and hears her run down the hall.

"Mr. Holmes? Everything alright?"

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days. Quite the nasty crash."

"Has anyone visited?"

"Yes. Your friend Greg and your brother Mycroft."

"Who's Greg?" He scoffs. She pulls the clipboard from a plastic slot on the wall.

"Um...ah! Greg Lestrade."

"Lestrade? His name is _Greg_?" He says mostly to himself.

"Yes. If you need anything else, call me." Sherlock gives her one of his fake smiles and watches her leave.

The smile disappears as soon as she leaves. He plots how he can get into John's room without being caught. He soon figures it out and sits up, pain shooting everywhere in his body. He grunts and closes his eyes, shutting out the feeling, ignoring it. He eyes the door and stands up, grabbing onto the portable monitor that has the bag of fluid on it. A burst of pain goes through his leg and he looks down at it, finding it wrapped in bandages. He doesn't remember the nurse telling him about it. Maybe he tuned her out.

Sherlock breathes through it and soon takes a step. He ignores the pain again, and uses the monitor to stabilize himself. With the machine as a cane, he steps with his left leg and keeps off his right. He ignores all other thoughts except one: John. He has to get to him. To see he's okay.

He gets to the door and opens it peeking around the corner to see if the nurse is there. He sees she is not, and quickly stumbles down the corridor, looking in every room. He finally sees John.

"John." He says. He bursts into the room and to the side of John Watson. John isn't wearing a hospital gown but only sweatpants. His stomach, where the glass shard that almost killed him and save his life had been, was covered in a white bandage. He had cuts all over his face, from the glass. His head was bandaged as well, wrapped around all the way. Sherlock grabs John's hand.

"John I am so sorry. We've only just started."

"I should have known it w-as a bad day to take a cab."

"I just...I cant lose you again. I was so scared." Sherlock's voice wavered at 'lose'. He made an attempt to close off his feelings. A tear escaped from his eye.

"I can't do it John. I can't pretend like it's okay. It's not." He laid his head on Johns leg.

"You know, showing your emotions isn't strong, brother dear. I told you not to get involved. You did. You can't hide from them anymore." Mycroft says from behind him. Sherlock looks up with a tear stained face. He scoffs.

"You hardly have room to talk. You don't have any sentiment towards anyone. How could you possibly care about anyone but yourself?" But Mycroft looks down at the ground instead of answering.

"I don't expect you to understand. But I care about you, brother. As much as it may pain me to admit." Sherlock just stared at his brother like he had just told him that the sky was green.

"Oh don't be so surprised."

"I just..."

"Its _fine_. Change the subject."

"Whats his condition?"

"How would I possibly-"

"Oh please. I know you care about John because I care about him. Whats his condition?"

"The doctors said that he has some brain damage to his cerebral cortex."

"Memory. Will it affect him?"

"They said it might. Ive decided to pay for his bills."

"What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're paying for the bill. You obviously want something." Mycroft pulls out a file from a briefcase.

"I want Sebastian Moran."

"Moran?" Sherlock mumbled to himself.

"Surely you know who I'm referring to."

"Yes of course I know who you're talking about you twat. Surely you remember I, myself, killed him?"

"No. You didn't." Mycroft rolls his eyes.

"You mean...?"

"Sherlock. You faked your death. You do know it's not just you that can do it?"

"I checked. He was dead."

"John checked you and hes a doctor."

"And Mary was working with him? Do you know for sure?"

"Yes. I'm afraid so." The memories of the last 3 months come crawling back to Sherlock.

_

(Flashback)

_Sherlock stands outside of Mary and John's flat. He hears shouting from behind the door and strains to hear it. He focuses on it._

_"I can't believe I trusted you!" John yells._

_"John please-"_

_"No! You lied to me about it being mine. You lied! You expect me to stay with you?! Not to mention it was with the best friend of the worst criminal I have ever met! He destroyed my life. I had nothing after Sherlock!" John was screaming. Sherlock could hear the strain in his voice._

_"John please. I am so sorry this happened. It's all my fault and I wish-"_

_"IT IS YOUR FAULT BECAUSE YOU CHEATED AND TOLD ME THAT WAS MY BABY IN THERE! I was so excited to be a father! And you're just going to take that away from me? Do you know how much pain he caused me?! Him and his friend?! How much pain you've caused me?!" John is crying now. Mary says nothing._

_"They made the only person who has been completely there for me leave. I trust Sherlock more than you and he's a bloody sociopath!"_

_"Not to mention the fact that you lied about who you are the whole time! You're a bloody assassin! I forgave you for that, Mary. That's not even your real name. Who are you? I don't even know who you are. Your life, your family. Nothing. I'm starting to think I should have read that damn flash drive!"_

_"John, I know I can never make you trust me. But please believe me when I say this: I love you. I never intended to drag you into this, and I never intended to be with Sebastian."_

_"But you did! You have ruined my life Mary! I came to you when I had nothing after Sherlock. Proposed to you. Married you! And now this?!"  
_

_"John, I am so sorry. Please. I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm asking you to stay. Don't leave me please. You're the one thing I don't regret in my life. You are the best thing I've ever had."_

_"Well, I regret you in mine. Goodbye Mary." Sherlock had his finger on the doorbell when John opened the door. His look was one of surprise and anger. His eyes were tired and tear filled._

_"Sherlock?"_

_"John." Sherlock looked over his shoulder to see Mary standing in the middle of the living room, tears rolling down her cheeks. She covers her face and sobs._

_"Should I-" John looks over his shoulder at Mary and sighs angrily._

_"No. Let's go." John slams the door behind him without a glance back at Mary._

_

Sherlock switched his eyes back to John in the hospital bed and grabbed his hand, which was limp and pale. He remembered John feeling his wrist with shaking fingers, crying out Sherlock's name. That was the worst day of both of their lives.

"Sherlock?" Sherlock laced their fingers together and lowered his head to Johns bed. He thought of the deal with Mycroft. If he brought him Moran, he would pay the bills for John.

"I'll do it."

"Do be quiet about it. Can't have bodies scattered around London, now can we?" Mycroft left, closing the door with a click. Sherlock still had his head on the bed.

"Mr. Holmes?" The brown haired nurse whispered in a panicked voice as she opened the door. He appeared to have not heard it. She was about to speak when she saw Sherlock bring Johns hand to his lips and whisper something. She strained to hear it.

"I love you, John Watson." She blushes, knowing she shouldn't have heard it. She clears her throat and Sherlock whips his head around, like a deer in headlights.

"I- um- its not what you think-" Sherlock stutters out quickly.

"Shh. Your secret is safe with me." She interrupts his thoughts. The nurse pretends to zip her lips. Sherlock nods gratefully at her.

"I finally found you Mr. Holmes! I've searched the whole hospital and I finally thought to look here and here you are right next to your....him." She was almost going to say 'boyfriend'.

To be honest, Sherlock didn't even know what they were. John and him were still best friends for sure, but after everything that happened over the last month...he just didn't know. Lovers? No. Definitely not boyfriends. More like...best-friends-that-are-more. They were just Sherlock and John. Love is confusing to Sherlock. (Yes, love. Sherlock googled the symptoms of love, he definitely has it.)

"I don't think I ever introduced myself did I? I'm nurse Oswald, but you can call me Clara." Sherlock nods at her.

"Sherlock Holmes." He says bluntly.

"Oh yes I know. It's such an honor. The whole hospital have been talking about you and Mr. Watson!"

"Doctor. Dr. Watson." He corrects her. Sherlock shivers. Even though he rarely gets cold, he has no shirt because his chest is wrapped. Only the pants Mrs. Hudson brought while he was sleeping. Or maybe Mycroft did. He doesn't know.

"Well, I'm sorry, but we have to do our daily run and check on our patients now, so we need to go back to your room and do that. I promise you will see John again, just after that. And please try and stay off your feet. I will take you here once you can have some rest okay?"

"Patients aren't allowed to leave if the doctor says bed rest."

"I know I just... I heard you and I know how that feels. When you love someone so much that you never want to leave them alone." Clara looks away sadly. Sherlock's eyes get a little less hostile towards her.

"Sorry. I'm just thinking about the past." Sherlock locks eyes with her.

"Let me go get you a chair so you don't damage your legs any more than they already are." She turns and leaves Sherlock and John alone.

"I'll be waiting for you when you wake up." Sherlock plants a soft, gentle kiss to Johns temple and leaves to go get his checkup without Clara. He doesn't need these damn nurses.

Sherlock was allowed to leave the hospital, and he did for about an hour, to go home and shower and get fresh clothes. Then he went right back to sitting next to John and waiting. John woke up about 5 days later.

_

Sherlock sat in the chair next to John's bed, eyes closed, and tried to remember the last time he ate. He can't.

 _Bit not good_.

He can practically hear John say it. He heard John stir and he opened his eyes, expecting to see him with closed eyes and a peaceful face. Icy blue eyes stare into his, and he nearly trips and falls trying to get to John and into the little stool beside the bed.

"John!" Sherlock places a hand on John's cheek. He missed those blue eyes, how they lit up a whole room and Sherlock was the only one who really noticed them. He missed the way they crinkled at the corners when John smiled. But that smile was far from John's face, and replaced with a confused frown and sad eyes.

"What's wrong John?"  He felt his forehead, which was very hot. Sherlock was up and out of the room before John had a chance to speak. He waited for them to come back and looked down at his stomach, inspecting the bandage.

The doctor entered alone, Sherlock apparently was told to wait outside against his will. He was wearing a blue pinstripe suit, a brown patterned tie, and red Chuck Taylor's.

"Dr. Watson! How are you feeling?"

"I...um, who was that?" He gestured towards the door. The doctor frowned and looked back at the door.

"Oh no..."

"Could you tell me the last thing you remember?"

"I remember getting out of bed and having coffee, and then I went for a walk."

"Would you excuse me for a moment?" He walked back out, meeting a nervous Sherlock who was pacing and tugging at the wrinkled sleeves of his suit jacket.

"Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock's head snapped up and he moved to meet the doctor eye to eye.

"Is he alright?"

"Does John go on walks?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"No. Not since he came to live with me."

"I'm sorry."

"About what? Let me see John." He tried to push past him, but he was stopped by the doctors hand on his chest.

"I told you this might happen, especially in cases like this. But...John doesn't remember who you are. And he likely doesn't remember much of anything after he came back from Afghanistan." Sherlock had a look of pure shock plastered on his face.

"What?"

"He has global dissociative amnesia. Which is only temporary, and usually only lasts a few days. Most cases like this, they don't remember their names or where they come from, but John does. He can probably regain his memories of you and everything else by himself, but it can be triggered by words, tastes, smells. Things like that."

"So he will just be...vacant for a while?"

"Well..." The doctor says, drawing out the "ell". Sherlock gave him a look of defeat and ran a hand through the curls on his head.

 "Its only temporary. Don't worry, Sherlock, he'll be back to his old self in no time." Sherlock needed something, anything, to get his mind off the fact that John Watson, his John Watson, did not remember who he was. He busied himself with deducing the doctor. He's a traveler, but is currently alone. He had a companion, but she (most likely a girlfriend or close friend of some kind) left him. Very kind, but will do anything to protect his family? Friends? People in general? He looks young, but his eyes have seen more than anyone else...a soldier of some kind a long time ago. The doctor looked at Sherlock and took off his glasses.

"I'm going in there." Sherlock turned on his heel and opened the door to John's room. John looked up and ran his hand through his hair.

"Hello John."

"Hello."

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock felt the same crushing weight he felt in the cab when he looked at John. John sighed and looked into Sherlock's unfamiliar bright eyes.

"Look, let's just get to the point. I find it difficult, this sort of thing. But I assume we are a...thing. And I'm sorry, but...I don't know who you are. You've most likely been told but um...I don't know who you are."

"You must, John, don't be dull. You know well. You know me, don't you? Are you trying to pull a joke on me? It's not funny. You never had a keen sense of humor, you, know." Sherlock was getting scared. He had never felt this way before. His throat tightened, his eyes went blurry, his entire body trembled. Sherlock felt like the whole world was crashing down around him, splitting down the middle between himself and John. He didn't want it to be real. It wasn't real. He looked back up at John, tears evident in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry." John said. But Sherlock kept playing the same line over and over in his mind: _I don't know who you are._

"I have to go." Sherlock spun around and promptly walked out of the room, away from the doctor and away from John. He walked as fast as he could towards the elevator and harassed the button until he heard the ding. It opened and he strode inside, practically punching the 'close door' button while jamming his finger into the '1' button. The door closed and he started going down, and he locked away his feelings, or tried to, until he saw John's confused gaze in his mind and lost it.

 _"Fuck!"_ He punched the metal wall of the elevator, leaving a small dent and a pounding hand. He shook it out. It was the only think he could focus on; the only thing that was logical, that made sense.

The elevator jerked to a stop and he ran out. Out of the hospital doors, onto the sidewalk where he died, into a cab, into 221B.

He slammed the door of the flat and ran into John's room, where he kept the gun. He thundered down the stairs and into the sitting room. He aimed for the smiley face on the wall and shot.

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Bang!_

_Click._

_Click._

_Click._

He threw the gun to the floor and plopped down in his chair.

**How do I get his memories back? What if I can't?**

He steepled his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, thinking of something, anything to get his mind off the one thing he hated the most. There were tears streaming down his face, and his entire mind and body was on meltdown.

 **John Watson does not remember me.** The one person that understood him the most in this world, the one person who loved him, put up with him, knew him, has no idea who he is. And that hurt. He'd never felt pain like this before. He felt loneliness, heartbreak, anger. He endured 2 years of seeing John mourning his death, crying every day, drinking himself half to death. He endured the wedding of John and Mary.

Nothing could have prepared him for that. He knew that he could bring John's memories back, but he knew about amnesia. Sometimes it didn't go away, and he's seen it happen. He can't bear the thought of losing John forever.

Suddenly, he found himself on his bedroom floor, head in his hands, 3 nicotine patches on his arm, behind a locked door.

-

**3 Weeks Later**

Sherlock got a call from the hospital, even though he wasn't there, he needed to make sure everything was going smoothly with John's recovery.

"How is he?"

"Hello Mr. Holmes. We uh..we've got some news. I'm afraid it is very bad news." Sherlock braced himself, putting up another wall around his heart.

"Go ahead." he says, wanting to get over everything.

"Well. John has a very rare form of amnesia. Nothing is triggering his memories, and of course he is willing to try and gain them back. But even if he is willing, I'm afraid it's been too long. We think his brain has either thrown out or locked away his memories of you and the past 5 years." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat.

"Okay."

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock had no need for apologies and hung up the phone. He felt sorrow building up inside him, pushing its way into his thoughts. He sat on the ground, phone falling out of his hands and landing on the rug with a thud. He put his head in his hands and buried himself in his mind palace.

_

**2 Months Later**

Sherlock was awoken with the distant ring of the door bell downstairs. Light seeped through his curtains, blinding him momentarily.

**I thought I shot the damn thing.**

He stood, wrapping his sheet around him and dragging it out of bed behind him, knocking empty pill bottles onto the floor.

He walked down the steps to the front door, complaining about being awaken so early.

"For God's sake Lestrade don't you realize not everyone is awoken at the crack of dawn by their cheating wife leaving for work. It better not be some drug bust again, and the case is so irrelevant its disgusting. This case is not a 7, I'm not leaving the house, so you can just piss-" Sherlock stopped talking as soon as he saw who was standing in front of him.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock took a step back. Words that usually flowed so easily out of his mouth were so far away as his breathing stopped and his mouth hung open, struggling to find something, anything to say.

"J-John. How can I help you?" Sherlock said quietly. His heart, seemingly beating 1000 times a second was so loud, he swore John could hear it.

"Actually, I was wondering if I could come in."

_

"So if I recall, you're staying at a friends?" Sherlock said nonchalantly. As if he wasn't hurting.

"Yep. Sholto. Friend from service." Sherlock cringed inwardly. he knew that look anywhere. The one John gave when he has or wants to have sex with someone.

"Interesting." John nodded and sipped his tea. Suddenly, the taste overwhelmed him, and he heard distant murmuring.

"Do you hear that?" he said, trying to listen to it.

_"Tea leaves on the bottom..hm."_

"What?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side.

_"GOD, JOHN, YOURE A GENIUS! I could kiss you!"_

_"Is that important?"_

_"Very! Run!"_ The voices faded out.

"What? I don't hear anything."

"I swear I heard...Never mind. I'd better get going, I've got patients to see early tomorrow." Sherlock quickly saw John out and shook his hand, knowing it would be a while before he saw John again.

_

Mycroft leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching as his brother dipped a lifeless finger into some solvent, observing it sizzle.

"I see John visited you today." He said knowingly.

"Yes. He came for tea. Hes staying at a 'friends' house of sorts, but I'm sure you know that already."

"Indeed. How was he?" Sherlock paused and took the finger out of the liquid.

"Different. I think hes gone..mad."

"Why do you say that?"

"He said something about hearing things. I thought maybe it could be trauma from the accident. Maybe voices." Mycroft smirked.

-

"Hello?" Sherlock rasped into the receiver.

"Hi Sherlock it's John. Are you busy today?"

"Not yet."

"Great. I mean only if you want to...would you like to meet me tonight? For dinner at this place called Angelo's? I mean of course if you don't want to its fine." Sherlocks heart jumped at the mention of Angelo's. Why would he pick that specific place? Of all the restaurants in the city he had to pick the one that...

"Hello?" Sherlock broke away from the memory and tried to remember what John had said.

"Alright. 8 o'clock." He said, and hung up the phone quickly. He wasn't quite sure if he really wanted to see him again, or if he could.

-

The day went by slowly, and Sherlock was ready to meet John by 6. Or as ready as he'll ever be. He laid on the couch and closed his eyes, drifting into his mind palace to prepare himself. He opened his eyes shortly after, and it was nearly 8. He got up and threw on his coat and scarf, hailing a cab once he got onto the street.

It was cold, colder than usual this time of year. The ride went by shortly, to his dismay, and he stood in front of the familiar restaurant, his eye on the window seat. Which of course, John Watson was sitting at.

He walked in, the bell on the door ringing, and sat down, taking off his coat and setting it beside him. John smiled politely, his cream jumper contrasting against his skin. Sherlock smiled briefly, barely twitching the corners of his mouth up and then back, probably before John had even noticed.

"Hello Sherlock." He said with another smile.

"John." Sherlock said, nodding. His chest was doing that thing again, where it felt agonizingly tight.

"How're things?"

"Fine." Sherlock said quickly, almost venomously. He didn't want to sound rude, but part of him was angry at John. Angry because all of what they had has been forgotten, forced into the corners of their minds, stamped down like trash in a garbage bin. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had no idea what to do. He was lost, like a child who lost his mother in the underground. And for the first time, he had nothing to say. They sat in silence before their menus finally came, Sherlock cursing Angelo for making him sit here with John. He got himself into this, and there was no way out.

"Any cases?" John asked, looking at his menu blankly.

"Several."

"Tell me about them." Sherlock had no idea what to say. He blinked a few times and spoke.

"There was a killing in Doncaster."

"Yes. And?" John urged.

"4 murders. All very locked room type. Some type of poison." He said quickly. He looked at the candle Angelo had purposely set on the table. **Funny** , John thought, **none of the other tables had candles.** They sat in silence for a while until Angelo came back and took their orders, John smiling politely and Sherlock refusing to eat anything. He was never hungry, especially these days. He ate when necessary, and despised the digestion that came with it. It slowed him down. He didn't have time for it. He didn't want it, but what he did want was something to feed his mind, and when he got it, it was euphoric.

"You should eat something. I know you don't, so don't lie and say you do. I've seen the fridge. You stock it with experiments and body parts, not food. Its not healthy. I know you only care about your mind, but remember your body is it's vessel, and it needs to be healthy to keep your brain functioning. Take care of yourself, please." He said, putting his hand over Sherlock's cold fingers. Sherlock didn't move for a minute, until he pulled away and smiled awkwardly.

"Alright." He said, not wanting to argue. Maybe John would try to get him to have a bite of his pasta.

-

"It was nice to see you again, Sherlock."

"And you as well." Sherlock held out his hand, John shaking it firmly. John heard a voice, almost like Sherlock's, but it was faint. He shook his head and smiled at Sherlock.

"Goodnight, John."

"Yeah, goodnight."

-

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock shouted from his spot on the couch. He furrowed his brow, listening for a response, but none came. He did however, hear footsteps on the stairs. He spoke when they reached the top of the stairs and entered the flat.

"Oh, good, you heard me. Could you pass me my phone? Not sure where I put it. Check by the fridge. Or in it. And while you're here, could you make tea?" He requested. There was a laugh in reply, which he immediately recognized.

"That poor woman. She's not your maid, you know?" John laughed.

"Since when have you got a key to the flat? People don't normally invite themselves in, you know." Sherlock teased. John smirked as the curly haired man looked up from his spot on the couch, clearly trying to deduce him. Or what he thought "deducing" might look like on the face of Sherlock Holmes. He had read about it on his website, trying to figure out the man who he'd shared his life with before all of this.

"Found it in a box of my things. I assumed you put it there."

"I thought it might come in handy one day." **I wanted you to use it.** John moved further into the flat, adjusting the Union Jack pillow and sitting down on his chair.

 _"Sherlock, move your arse. That's my chair."_ John shook his head as he heard Sherlock laughing, and he turned to see why but he wasn't in the room.

"Sherlock?" He called out. No answer. He went up the stairs.

 _"Sherlock! Give it back!"_ A voice shouted. He heard himself laugh followed by Sherlock's.

 _"You've got to be faster than that, John!"_ He heard a door slam faintly. He got to Sherlock's door and knocked, receiving no answer.

 _"Sherlock open the door before I break the bloody thing down!"_ He heard more laughing. John closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead.

"Must be going insane." He said. He turned around and found himself barely 2 inches from Sherlock's face. He gasped and froze.

"Are you alright?" He asked. John could almost feel the vibrations in Sherlock's throat. John opened his mouth and unfroze, stepping back and coughing awkwardly.

"Uh, yeah. 'M fine." He muttered.

-

"Of course she didn't kill him! Look at her hair!"

"How does her hair have anything to do with the fact of whether or not she's a murderer?"

"I swear it must be so dull in your head, John. A layer of dust is probably surrounding your brain at this rate." John rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the television.

"Oh, hello John! Didn't know you were still here. I could make you something, if you'd like?" Mrs. Hudson said from the doorway. She made her way into the kitchen and started cleaning the remains of an experiment Sherlock had been working on a while ago.

"Sherlock you really must clean these dishes up. You've got none in the cupboard." She scolded. He didn't respond. John got up to help while Sherlock's eyes scanned every pixel on the screen.

"How have you been, dear?"

"Oh, uh good." He said, clearing his throat and feeling the lie slip off his tongue like water. It was strange. He didn't know her. He barely knew Sherlock. But he was warming up to him, learning his little quirks and habits. He liked them; he liked Sherlock. He was like a breath of fresh air in a room of ordinary people. He liked his honesty, his fast rants, his quiet manner at times. He was...well, he was just Sherlock. He looked at him, the light from the TV casting shadows across his face.

He snapped out of the trance and went to the stove to see if Mrs. Hudson needed help with whatever she had started cooking.

"Go sit with him. I've got it," she said, nudging him out of the kitchen. He went to the couch and sat, his hip touching Sherlock's.

"So what did I miss?"


	2. Chapter 2

The weeks passed quickly, and Sherlock was starting to grow impatient with John's memory. He'd faced every case, every criminal, every locked room mystery. Even the cases that weren't even a 7. He practically took files from Lestrade's computer just to pass the time and see if he could hack it. And he could. He even found out how to see what he was doing on his screen at that very moment. A skill which he found both amusing and a good source for blackmail material.

John Watson came around every so often. He would sit and have tea with Sherlock. Read the paper. Small talk about cases.

Sherlock had had enough. He decided. Either trigger John's buried memories or cut him out of his life. He tried every time he saw John to bring his memories back. He really did. He took John to places they had gone together and done the same things. Nothing seemed to be working.

John had gotten to now Sherlock, but he felt nothing like they tell him he felt before. He saw Sherlock and thought of how much pain hes unwillingly caused him. He knew it wasn't his fault. He had told himself that over and over. But he knew how him and Sherlock had been. How much they had loved each other. And to have that taken away from you...he couldn't imagine how that would feel or what that would do to a person.

John had been staying at a flat he bought for cheap in a bad area of town. He hadn't much money, and what he had before was shared between himself and Sherlock from Mycroft or his job. It payed well enough, but he refused to let Sherlock pay his hospital bills, so he was up to his eyes in them. They seemed to be slowly disappearing. Probably Sherlock begging Mycroft to help. He saw his sister sometimes, which was nice because from what he gathered he never really saw her after he came back from Afghanistan.

He saw Sherlock when he could. He really was trying to bring back his memories. He felt something in him that longed for Sherlock. He didn't know how else to describe the feeling. He wanted to see Sherlock when he was lonely or when he was bored at work. When he needed someone to talk to him like a human being; not a broken toy that was accidentally stepped on. Like he wasn't a shell of himself. Like he didn't lose his entire life.

He had talked to a friend of Sherlock's; Molly Hooper. She was the only one John had told about his relationship with him before the crash. She said that even before then, she could see how much the two had loved each other. She said that John had described Sherlock as being his entire life. So then John saw it fit to refer to Sherlock as his entire life.

Because he knew that's what he was. You don't love someone like Sherlock and not let it consume you. It's not possible. You want to be with them every second. See how they think, how they speak, how they love. He wished more than anything in the world that he could have that feeling back.

-

Sherlock rapped on the door to John's flat. He held his breath as he heard john walking to the door. Two locks clicked open and John opened the door for Sherlock, flashing a quick smile and motioning him in. He  walked away quickly and into a small kitchen. the flat smelled of meat and eggs mixed with the comforting smell of John Watson. Sherlock closed the door behind him, glancing around the off-white room and taking in the new environment, mapping it out quickly and placing it in his mind palace. He knew it would prove useful in the future. He took off his coat and scarf and walked into the kitchen, where John was moving about frantically in his pajamas, which consisted of a gray t shirt and black fleece sweatpants. He was hovering over the stove, moving the contents of a small pan with a spatula. Sherlock leaned against the counter, placing one leg over the other and placing his hands on either side of his body, his green button up shirt straining against his chest. 

"Breakfast?" Sherlock spoke. His voice was still gravely, since he stayed awake the whole night.

"Uh, yeah. Its the only way you'll ever eat anything. If i make it. You know. Make you." He said, half paying attention to Sherlock and half the food. He was never very good at multitasking.

"God, your'e almost as bad as Mrs. Hudson these days. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself." John laughed and shook his head.

"Well, I'm not your mum, but I'm not going to let you starve yourself. I tend to care about my friends a little more than that."

Sherlock felt a strange pang in his heart. Something he hadn't felt since the moment John walked into his lab at Bart's. "Friend." He liked that. He liked that John no longer thought of him as a stranger.

"You live to irritate me John Watson."

"And you live to see how you can test your own limits." Sherlock laughed wholeheartedly.

"Touche. Now what is that monstrosity you've created in that pan?" Sherlock pushed off the counter and looked over John's shoulder, his chest resting against his back. It was a natural reaction for him. John tense for a moment, then relaxed, letting out an interrupted breath with the relief that it felt right. Like he belonged there with Sherlock. 

 _"You scared the life out of me Sherlock!_ _I told you not to do that when I'm not paying attention."_

 _"Do what?"_ John felt ghost kisses on his neck and across his shoulders.

John whipped around, knocking Sherlock and himself on the floor. He heard his voice, but he wasn't saying anything. 

"Shit--sorry. I thought I heard something." Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stood, helping John up.

"It's fine. Toast?"

"Cabinet above the fridge. Toast is in it, jam is in the fridge."

Sherlock reached up to the cabinet with ease, which John usually had to stand on his toes to reach. He put the bread into the toaster and got out John's favorite jam; strawberry. He still kept it in his own fridge at home, just in case John ever came back to Baker Street. Just like he kept his favorite tea, and his side of the bed made like he always did it.

He sat down at the table with John. He watched him reading the paper. He always had this look about him when he was reading. Like it was confusing. He would furrow his brow and squint at the words. It was just one of the things John has always done. Just like the way he tapped at his thighs when he rode in cabs. And how he always fell asleep watching the telly every night.

Things like these keep Sherlock going. That even though John has no memories of him, hes still the same John Watson hes always been. The one Sherlock fell (unwillingly, as he liked to say) in love with. Things like these make him remember that he can remember everything at any time.

"I need a flatmate." Sherlock said. He didn't know where it came from. He just sort of said it.

John looked up from the paper. He folded it and put it next to his plate.

"At Baker Street? I thought Mycroft was paying for it."

"I froze my bank accounts so he couldn't."

"And why the bloody hell would you do that?"

"I was bored." _I wanted you to come home._

"I don't understand you Sherlock."

"I hear that quite a bit. I'm quite simple. I live by strict principles and rules I've set for myself. I've got a list if you'd like to see."

"No, that's quite alright. Have you found anyone willing to live with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well, that's what I was going to ask you. If you wanted to. Come back to Baker Street, that is. I'll need help to pay rent and you're struggling on your own. Plus I need someone to make me meals. You seem most qualified." Sherlock smiled at John, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"I'd have to think about it."

"What's to think about? You live in a poor man's area of town, you hardly have anything in this awful place or a steady income that keeps you afloat. You don't like living alone. It would be greatly beneficial for both of us, John."

John couldn't argue that point. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Sherlock smiled inwardly, like a child who just got their mother to say yes to something ridiculous. 

"When are you free? I'll need help moving my things."

"Wonderful. How's tomorrow?"

"Watch your head, Sherlock!" _Thump._

"Couldn't you have told me that before we started carrying heavy objects down the stairs? What's the phrase? 'I don't have eyes in the back of my head.'" 

Sherlock dipped under the ceiling he just hit his head on.

"You're the detective; you're the one with a sixth sense. Sorry for not doubting you. I'll have to remember that next time." John huffed, re positioning the mattress in his arms. Sherlock ignored his remark and kept moving down the stairs, his head low and his 'sixth sense' working like a machine now.

The two had just started moving John's things into 221B. There was a small truck waiting outside, John's things in the back of it. He left the keys to his flat on the counter for his landlord, everything gone except a few empty boxes and the months rent.

-

John plopped down into his old chair, his own scent still lingering on the fabric. He rubbed it with the tips of his finger and closed his eyes, putting it into his mind under "Things I Used To Remember." Sherlock was in the kitchen, moving some of the mess that had accumulated since John had moved out. There were papers, Petri dishes, pill bottles. He stood up and picked one up. Nembutal. Another bottle. Seconal. Two More. Benzodiazepines. Sleep Medicines. Three more. Codeine and Morphine viles. OxyContin. The rest. Percocet, Vicodin, Lorcet. He shook his head and looked down at the rug. 

He never knew it was this bad. He never knew that's what happened when the love of Sherlock Holmes' life was taken from him. He never knew that he was an addict. They all forgot to tell him. No. They didn't forget; they didn't want him to know. He wished he knew. He wished he could help. He wished he could flush these pills out of Sherlock's hands and out of his life.

The truth was, he started to care about Sherlock Holmes. He felt something for this man that he had never felt before in his life. And it terrified him. 

But John Watson was not giving up. He wasn't picking up and running from his past, present, and future. John Watson has never given up on anything. And he refuses to start now.

He walked into the kitchen, his steps just as hesitant as his words. He scratched his nose and folded his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat. Sherlock stood at the table, organizing his lab equipment.

"Prescriptions addressed to one Sherlock Holmes. Opiates. Morphine. Sleeping pills. Mood stabilizer. Treatments for Schizophrenia."

Sherlock didn't seem phased at all.

"You can't just do this to yourself, Sherlock."

"Do what, John?" Sherlock looked up and cocked his head.

"These drugs. The pills. You have medications for conditions you couldn't possibly have. You will kill yourself if you keep doing this. I don't know what happened in the past, Sherlock. I don't. I wish I did. I wish I could help you with it. But I can't even begin to help if you don't know that. That I want to help you. And the only way I can help you is if you..help yourself."

"I thought someone had told you. My brother, for example, likes to give out my information. He does it quite a bit. I assumed. Judging by the look on your face you're concerned. Let me simplify it for you."

Sherlock paused and looked down, fiddling with a glass beaker.

"I have been this way my entire life. There is nothing you, my brother, or any rehab facility can fix. I have come to terms with it. It's time you and everyone else understands that's just the way I work. That is how the great Sherlock Holmes solves his mysteries and murders. That is my secret. How you choose to interpret that is up to you." Sherlock said bluntly. John clenched his fists and moved closer to Sherlock. He put both on his hands on the table and looked into Sherlock's eyes.

"You weren't like that before all of this happened. When I remembered you. I know you weren't. I can tell because I still know you better than most. Because I care about you Sherlock. I really do. I don't want to see you hurt yourself because of me. Or because of anything, for that matter. You are too brilliant to let your mind rot away like this. Please. Let me help you." John pleaded. Sherlock shook his head and smiled sadly. 

"You know, John, I have tried harder in the last few months to make you remember than I have at anything in my entire life. But there is one thing I can't force you to do. Something that I never forced you to do, and something that you didn't imagine or force upon yourself. I cannot force you to love me, or to care about someone like me. You deserve far more than me in this life, John Watson. You deserve  someone who knows how to care about himself. Someone who cares about more than one person. Someone who is not me. Truthfully, I do not deserve you, John. I don't deserve someone as kind, wise, brave, and loving as you are. I don't deserve the dirt on the bottom of my shoe. I am not the kind of person that you should be around, or care about, or love. If you had any hint of intelligence, you would run in the opposite direction of me." Sherlock said sadly. John had never seen him express this much emotion. He had tears in his eyes. Sherlock had tears in his eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to get the lump out of it.

 

"Sherlock, I have never met anyone as absurdly stupid as you are. I have never met someone who lacks as much self-esteem as you do. I have never met a sociopath before. But I have also never met anyone as blindingly smart, adventurous, or curious as you. And I know that something about you drew me to you, and is still doing so even under these circumstances. And I believe that you are meant to be in my life, no matter what. And I would like to keep it that way. But at the rate you are going, you won't be in it for very long. So please...let me help you. No rehab. No Mycroft. I will make sure you get back to how you were, and how we were. But you have to help me too."

"John, when-"

"No. I do know what I'm doing. The answer is when you decided to keep me 'round. I know that you need my help. I know you don't need any medication, and you never have. I want you to be happy, Sherlock."

"Actually, I was going to say 'when do we start?'"

"Well, now. But where is a different story." 

-

Sherlock stood above the toilet, the last pill bottle open and in his hand. John stood in the doorway, leaning against it. He was holding his breath. Sherlock had been this way with all of the pills. He even dumped the morphine down the drain. That was when it became real for Sherlock.

This was one of the hardest decisions he has ever had to make. John Watson, or his drugs. He always knew he would choose John. But he never thought he would have to, especially since he thought he was losing John for good. He had no reason to stay off the drugs. It was always an easy alternative for him. They kept his emotions away. They kept memories of John away. But now John is permanently back in his life, he had to give them up. Without ever knowing that John would regain his memories. 

But from a more realistic point of view, Sherlock thought, even if he doesn't regain his memories, and his amnesia of the last 4 years remains, he could make new memories. 

But that doesn't guarantee that John will ever love him again.

Sherlock dumped the last of the pills into the toilet and flushed. 

John let out a breath of relief. He smiled, knowing that he had just made a significant change in Sherlock's life.

-

"I need them John! Where are they? They were in my spot. Where did you put them?" Sherlock yelled. He had turned the flat upside down looking for his stash of heroin and morphine. 

"Sherlock, I'm not letting you throw away an entire weeks worth of progress. You made this commitment, now you have to keep with it. You can do that." John said, his voice raised. Sherlock was throwing papers around the room, dumping the trash bins onto the floor, turning over furniture.

"Where did you put them John?" Sherlock said. He was sweating, his eyes closed and his fists clenched beside him. 

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock, because I'm not telling you. I told you that when we started this, and we both agreed that even if you're begging me on your knees, going through withdrawals and screaming at me. You agreed. Now you need to calm down, and realize the only way you're ever going to get better is if you really want to. And right now it looks like you're giving up."

Sherlock huffed. He went to the coat rack and threw his coat around his shoulders, his scarf crushed in his clenched hands. He walked out of the room, down the steps, and out of the door. 

John stood in the middle of the room, defeated. He walked to the window and watched Sherlock hail a cab and climb in, slamming the door. The cabbie sped off, driving Sherlock somewhere he was undoubtedly going to get his fix.

-

John knocked on the door of the bathroom. He heard Sherlock retching, his own stomach turning at the sound of it. He wished desperately that he could help. The bathroom water was running, but it wasn't enough to stop the sound from escaping. 

After about 10 minutes of silence and heavy breathing, He heard the water stop, and the lock on the door clicked. Sherlock emerged. John stood up from his place on the hallway floor. John studied him, making sure he wasn't in serious condition. 

"Come, now. You have to rest. It'll get better in another day." John took Sherlock by the arm and guided him to his room at the end of the hall. He opened the door and light hit them both. Sherlock groaned and shielded his eyes. John took him to the bed and he sat down, covering his eyes. John went to the window and closed the blinds. 

"Now, take off your clothes."

"All you had to do was ask and-"

"No! Because you'll overheat. You'll feel cold, but you'll be sweating. Especially in a house coat and trousers." John had stood Sherlock up and helped Sherlock out of his clothes. He looked green, and John was scared. He knew that this was normal, but it was odd seeing Sherlock so sick and helpless. Sherlock was stripped down to his pants, which were black of course. John moved the covers for him to crawl under. He was moving slowly and panting. 

"J-John. When can..I-I.." Sherlock mumbled. John covered Sherlock with the blanket and Sherlock curled up, almost wheezing.

"Don't worry about anything right now. Get some rest. The trash can is next to you if you've got to throw up, and I'll go get water." John turned and left the room, sighing to himself. He walked to the kitchen and got water.

"How's he doing?" A voice said. John jumped and turned, ready to fight. Mycroft was leaning in the doorway, his umbrella in his hands.

"There's a door for a reason. You should knock on it next time." John said, irritated.

"You were occupied playing nurse for Sherlock Holmes. I let myself in." John huffed at Mycroft.

"He's doing fine. It's normal. By the way, who's Redbeard? He keeps saying it over and over." Mycroft sighed. 

"He was our dog when Sherlock was a boy. We had to put him down when he got old and sick. Sherlock was very attached to him. He was never the same after that. It made Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah. That's awful. Well, I've got to get back and give him water, he's sweating it all out. Bye, Mycroft." John said, turning and walking to Sherlock's room and closing the door behind him.

"Who..was that?"

"Mycroft. Drink some water, here." Sherlock sat up slowly and took the cup in shaking hands, taking a sip and then downing the whole cup once he realized he was thirsty. He handed the cup to John and laid down. John took the cup and turned to leave, but Sherlock caught his wrist.

"Will you..stay h-here?" Sherlock slurred. John looked at Sherlock, who had a strong grip on the sleeve of John's jumper.

"Of course." John moved to the other side of the bed, kicking off his shoes and sitting in the bed, pulling the covers over his legs. He grabbed a book that was on Sherlock's bed table; it was titled 'The Structure and Life of a Bee' by Benjamin Cross.

He opened it and found that the pages had been cut out. There were pictures, notes, letters. He looked to see if Sherlock was sleeping. He was falling asleep and was twitching, his muscles relaxing. He started shivering, so John pulled the covers up over Sherlock's shoulders. He fell asleep quickly. 

John pulled the contents of the book out, which were all folded. the first thing he unfolded was a picture. It was of John and Sherlock, smiling. They stood in a field of grass, John's arm around Sherlock's shoulders. John stared at the picture, furrowing his brow.

_"Sherlock, just smile for the damn picture!"_

_"I don't smile for pictures John-"_

_John turned and whispered in Sherlock's ear._

_"Imagine you're playing a game of cat and mouse with a serial killer." John said. A smile spread across Sherlock's face, and John wrapped his arm around him, standing on his toes and smiling._

John set the picture beside him. He picked up a letter in an envelope. The letter was addressed to himself. He opened it and started reading.

_**October 17th, 2015** _

The date sounded familiar. John kept reading.

_**John,** _

_**There are things you should know before I say anything. First off, I am sure about everything I am about to say in this letter. And you know my views on this sort of thing. This is probably the only time you will ever hear me say this.** _

_**I love you, John.** _

_**I'd never gotten a chance to say it to you. Before I knew it, you were  getting married. Having a child. I had never gotten the chance to say it. I've come close, but it never really seemed right. You were happy the way we were. But there were times, when your pupils** _ **_dilated, and your heard raced when you were near me, I almost said everything I've ever wanted to say. That I loved you. That you've made me a better person. That I can't live without you. And I can't. It's been almost a month since we've been together. You're back home._ **

**_This is more than I have ever felt for a human being. Missing them when they're away. Loving them. Sentiment. You know that I don't feel for anyone._ **

**_Except for you, John Watson._ **

**_Now, I don't suppose I'll ever give you this letter, or ever get the courage to say it to you. But know this: I will always feel this way for you, John. No matter what happens. And I will be there beside you, always, until the end of my days._ **

**_SH_ **

John finished reading the letter, his eyes wide open. He looked over at Sherlock and sighed. He couldn't imagine how he could ever feel something like that for anyone. He knew he loved Sherlock before, and that Sherlock loved him. But reading this made it feel real. 

He picked the next thing from the book. Another letter.

_**Sherlock,** _

_**You've been gone for a year now.** _

**_It's so odd, looking at your chair. Without you in it, it seems lifeless. Like a corpse. I've always meant to move it. I thought about leaving this at your grave, but it seems every time I leave anything for you, it's gone in less than an hour. Maybe the land keeper doesn't like gifts for people that will never receive them. Which makes sense I suppose. But this letter is different, Sherlock. You are the best man I have ever known, and I am reminded every day. When you aren't here, telling me that my clothes make me look like an old man. When you ask me why people care so much, but I can't hear you. Half of me thinks I've tried taking your place. That you need someone to carry on for you, to remind people that everyone lies, that everyone is too sentimental, not to get involved in things that break your heart. I didn't know what it was like to have a broken heart until you died. And for that, I hate you. I wish I never met you. That Mike Stanford hadn't taken me to see you._ **

**_That I hadn't fallen in love with you._ **

**_I know, you already knew. You're so clever. You knew from the moment I felt something, that tiny twinge of care for you. But neither of us said anything. Part of me used to think you loved me too. When I would call you brilliant, and you would smile at me. I never saw you smile enough. I wish I could have. It was always so rare, that when it happened, I would almost stop breathing. When we solved a case and you would have this look in your eye, and you would look at me and they became warm. When you did small things that showed you cared. They were rare, but I always thought of them as the highest compliment I could ever receive from Sherlock Holmes._ **

**_Today I've sat around and sulked. Read the paper. Gone to the pub. Came home, drank some more. Cried in your room. I left it just the way it was.  I didn't want the memory of you to fade away. I wanted you to be here until the end of my days. I never saw anything in my future aside from you. And now you aren't. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Sherlock. I don't know how I'm ever supposed to move on or forget about you. You saved me in so many ways, and for that, I can't thank you enough._ **

**_But now you're gone, and I don't think you're coming back. Because if you loved me, you would if you could. I always think to myself that maybe you did survive, and you're just out of reach. But I felt your pulse, and it wasn't there. And at that moment, I think a part of me had died with you._ **

The letter ended there. John had tears running down his face, but he couldn't remember why. It triggered something inside him. It made his heart jump. He looked at Sherlock once again.

And something in him changed.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke the next morning feeling entirely better. His headache was faint, and he was a little tired, but aside from that, the other symptoms we re all gone. He turned over in bed, stretching his long limbs out as far as possible. He opened his eyes and saw John, completely asleep. He smiled slightly, or about as much as he was he was capable of doing, and got out of bed. He changed into a burgundy pajama set and pulled his tan house coat over his shoulders. Sherlock set out down the hallway, closing his bedroom door behind him and venturing to the kitchen. He saw that Mrs. Hudson had already brought tea, and it was still hot. She'd made it just how he likes it; milk and two sugars. He took it off the tray and sat in his chair, sipping it gingerly. He sat for a while, drinking his tea and letting his mind wonder from the bright sunlight hitting the back of his neck, to the way the light hit John's chair, to how John's eyes looked in the light.

That was Sherlock's newest addiction. Thinking about John all the time. It was hard for him to concentrate on cases, experiments, clients. Especially if John is in the room. He distracts him. Meddles with his thoughts and makes him...

He really never had any 'urges' (as John likes to put it) before John came into his life. He knew what society perceived as attractive, so he couldn't help noticing someone (mostly men) that were pleasing to the eye. But John Watson was a completely different story. He had a bright smile, pretty eyes, and as he heard people say when he walked in the street with John, a lovely arse.  Not only was he attractive to Sherlock, but he was kind. So very kind to Sherlock, but he never let anyone walk all over him or overstep their boundaries. He was rough, but smooth around the edges. Dominant, but never pushy. Sherlock always knew that John had most of the authority in their relationship. When John says jump, Sherlock says how high. That was something that was never spoken of between them, but it was a standing rule in the John-and-Sherlock relationship.  Sherlock always loved a firm hand, but nothing compared to that of John Watson. He had never met anyone as willing to stand up to him as John. And he admired a man who could think for himself. Not to mention John is quicker than most of the people he associates himself with.

Sherlock had been lost in thought for a while, and before he knew it he was standing beside the window, playing his violin. He was unconsciously composing, playing the way his thoughts were wondering. Slowly when he was thinking about John, speeding up the pace when he was thinking about cases, somewhere in between when he was thinking about the situation at hand.

John walked into the room slowly, rubbing his eyes and yawning, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. He fell asleep last night in Sherlock's bed, after he read all the letters Sherlock and John had written to each other, sent or unsent.

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed his luke-warm cup of tea. He tasted it, but decided he'd rather not reheat it anyways. He stretched and walked over to where Sherlock was playing violin. 

John had always liked it when he played. Especially in the morning, because it was like a peaceful alarm clock. It helped him wake up in a good mood, it calmed him down when he'd had a bad day at the clinic, or when he was tired and needed a nap. 

He remembered the first time he heard it; he thought he was dreaming. John walked into the room and found Sherlock playing the instrument intently, not even reading his music sheets. He watched the way he slowly waltzed around the room, sliding the bow with slender fingers. It captivated him. He'd watched Sherlock for hours before he even noticed John was in the room.

John watched Sherlock, his eyes closed and his fingers gently guiding the bow. He sat in his chair, watching Sherlock and trying to wake himself up. 

"Good morning, John." Sherlock said, fully aware John had come in.

"Morning. How're you feeling?" He said, his voice gravely.

"Fine." Sherlock said bluntly, still playing his violin. 

"Any symptoms?" 

"No." Sherlock said bluntly.

John sighed and watched Sherlock, basking in the warm morning sun floating i through the windows. 

The doorbell rang. Sherlock kept playing. 

"Client, John." He said suddenly. John got up and went to him bedroom, changing his clothes quickly. He washed his face in the bathroom and came back out to find Sherlock speaking with the client, a small woman in her late sixties or seventies. White hair, wrinkled eyes, delicate hands. She wore a pink jumper, a black and baby blue knit scarf, black trousers, and pink rain boots to match her jumper. She fiddled with the fringe on the ends of her scarf nervously, and she spoke softly and hesitantly. 

Sherlock sat in his chair, his legs draped over the sides and still in his pajamas. His eyes were closed in concentration, listening to the old woman speak. John sat in his chair, nodding at the woman, who smiled and continued her testimony.

"And that was when I'd noticed the door was unlocked, and all of my things were still there. I checked upstairs to see if my granddaughter was in her room, but she wasn't there. She left her cellphone, and her clothes were thrown all over the floor. I found it odd then, because my granddaughter-"

"What's her name, Mrs. Bentley?" Sherlock interrupted.

"It's Ivy, sir." She said politely.

"Continue, please. Why did you find that odd?"

"I found it odd that she'd thrown her clothes on the floor, because my granddaughter has always been very neat, even when she was a small child. She takes after her father." 

"Where are her parents?"

"They died in an accident last year. She's been living with me and my husband, Oswald." Mrs. Bentley unconsciously twisted her wedding ring. It was old, John observed, thirty plus years. 

"Where was he, while you were out and when you noticed your granddaughter had disappeared?"

"He was at lunch with our son."

"Has Ivy ever been in any trouble?"

"Yes, sir. She got into  bad crowd of people when her parents died. She was arrested for drugs. We got her away from them though, and she's been clean as a whistle since then." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Your granddaughter has returned to old habits, Mrs. Bentley. You'll find her with her old friends. Good day." Sherlock got out of his chair, helping the old woman up and ushering her quickly out of the flat.

"Mr. Holmes, she-"

"Bye now!" Sherlock closed the door in her face. John shook his head and picked up the paper from his side table. 

Sherlock's mobile rang. He huffed and put it on silent before he even looked to see who it was. 

"You're not going to answer it?" John asked, looking up from the paper.

"Insignificant." He said.

The phone rang again. 

"What could you possibly want Anderson?" He snapped into the receiver. He paused for a moment, and a look of surprise flashed across his face.

"Where was he last seen?" He said, disappearing into his bedroom and throwing on clothes. He came out, pulling on his shoes while hopping on one leg. 

John got up, looking at Sherlock quizzically. 

"I'll be there." Sherlock said, hanging up the phone.

"Lestrade's been kidnapped. I'll need your assistance." Sherlock said, walking out the door and pulling on his coat and scarf.

"He what?" John said, moving to the door and grabbing his coat as well. They were hurrying down the steps and throwing themselves into a cab. 

"He's been kidnapped. They don't know much yet, but it is the Scotland Yard. Who knows what goes on in their funny little brains. Let's hope we get there before they compromise the crime scene." The rest of the drive went silently, Sherlock tapping his fingers against his leg, deep in thought.

They arrived at Lestrade's house and Sherlock jumped from the cab, John following shortly after. Sherlock flashed an ID at the officer who was guarding the door and walked in, immediately looking for Lestrade before he realized he wasn't there. Anderson and Sally Donovan stood in the living room, looking at something on the floor. Sherlock moved closer and pulled out his magnifying glass, examining the blood. A few feet away was a broken coffee cup, the contents spilled around it and covering the broken mug. He walked into the clean kitchen, which was cleaned by Lestrade's wife that morning, just before his wife left for work, he observed. He closed his eyes and imagined the situation.

Lestrade came down the stairs, made coffee, gotten ready for work. He was on his way out of the house, walking to the door. Someone came from behind him, attacked him. He dropped the cup, his shoes spreading it around while fighting off his attacker. Judging by the way he spread the coffee, it was only with his toes, indicating the man (obviously) was taller than Lestrade and had considerable strength. Lestrade managed to get free, but the attacker punched him, hence the blood on the tile from where it dripped from his mouth as he bent over. He tackled the attacker, pushing him to the ground. He didn't get far, he was turned over (scratches on the floor from his belt) and Was hit several times. Dragged from the spot on the floor and taken out of the back, where a car waited, put in the back, and driven out of the alley with his attacker in the car with him.

By now, John and the rest of the officers had followed Sherlock out into the alley and to the street. He stood up from the place where he was examining the tire marks on the pavement.

"They went left from the alley, that's all I can tell as of now. The attacker was 6 feet 3 inches tall, he wore dress shoes, and had red-brown hair. There were clear signs of a struggle, even the lot of you could deduce that. Lestrade was surprised, and he recognized he recognized him. He was angry towards him. The attacker was merciless, truly determined to take Lestrade. This man had a motive." Sherlock finished, talking so quickly few of the crowd could understand him. John's mouth was agape, his face showing pure bewilderment. 

The crowd dispersed and John watched Sherlock stroll out to the street and hail a cab. He opened the door and waited for John, who jogged to get to the cab. They climbed in and Sherlock told the cabbie to take them back to Baker Street.

Sherlock pulled his mobile out and opened his messages, frowning and then giving the driver an address John had never heard before. The ride took longer than John had hoped. They drove almost out of London, closer to the country.They drove through trees and at this point, the fare had become expensive. They drove up to a wrought iron gate, which lead to a long driveway lined with hedges. They got out and Sherlock payed the driver, who grumbled in response and cursed at Sherlock, mumbling something about him and John. 

"Sod off!" Sherlock shouted as he sped off, leaving them at the gate. Sherlock walked up to it, waving at a camera. The gates opened seconds later. John wearily followed behind Sherlock.

"Where are we?" John finally asked. He'd hoped he would know the address once he got there at least, but he'd never been here with Sherlock. Not that he knew of, anyways.

"Mycroft's monstrosity of a mansion. He's always been one to boast about his pay grade." Sherlock said, scoffing at his own words. John furrowed his eyebrows and shrugged, taking in the scenery.

They walked up the long driveway and turned, revealing Mycroft's..palace, as John saw it. It was enormous, with trees and beautiful grey stone. It fit Mycroft Holmes perfectly. It looked like something out of one of the rich people magazines they kept in the waiting room of the clinic.

They finally arrived at the front door, which was immediately opened by a small, white-haired old man. 

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. Please, come in." He said, his voice small and quiet.

"Thank you, Sterling. You look well." Sherlock said, making sure he could hear him. 

"Thank you, sir. May I take your coats?" He said, smiling. Sherlock nodded and shrugged his off, giving it to the butler, John promptly doing the same. He hung their coats on hooks, which were mounted on the grey wall. 

"Is Mycroft in?"

"Not as of now, sir. He should be arriving in-" He checked his pocket watch, which was an antique from his father, Stephen. "Ten minutes. I can show you to his office, if you'd like." Sterling said, clasping his hands in front of him.

"That would be lovely, thank you." Sherlock said. John smiled inwardly at how polite and kind he was being to Sterling. It was a nice change from his usual pessimistic, sarcastic self.

Sterling turned on his heel and walked to a long flight of stairs similar to an hourglass. It was white with black on the tops of the steps, leading to two different parts of the house. Sterling turned left, John looking down the right, which was a long hallway with at least 20 doors. The left was the same. The butler lead them down the hallway, stopping at a room with white french doors.

"Here we are. I'll go put some tea on."

"Very well, thank you Sterling." Sherlock said, opening the doors. Sterling nodded and smiled, turning and going back down the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen.

Sherlock pushed the doors open and stepped in, revealing a rather impressive office. Wooden bookshelves (all filled to the brim with what looked like very book you could ever imagine) lined the walls, there was a large, very expensive desk facing away from the windows, which went from floor to ceiling. They overlooked the property; green trees and clear skies. John paced around the room, taking it all in. There were two large leather chairs in front of Mycroft's desk. Mycroft's chair was tailored to fit him to the stitch, like his suits. It was tall and brown, silver studs lining the edges. It even looked like Mycroft.

Sherlock was wondering around, picking things up and going through the drawers and cabinets in the room. He got to his desk and scoffed, picking up a picture and laughing at it silently. 

He set it down and stared at it. He could feel John looking at him. His eyes etching into his skin, making his entire body heat up.

The picture was of his family. His Mum and Dad, Mycroft, and himself. He couldn't have been more than 7 years old at most. Mycroft was a teenager, 16 or 17. They all stood, smiling, Sherlock on Mycroft's shoulders and his parents with their arms around each other. John came around to the desk, wondering what Sherlock was doing. He stood beside him and looked at the picture, baffled by the sight.

"That's you? And Mycroft? Who're they?" John asked.

"My parents." He said, looking through the drawers in Mycroft's desk. There were files, a gun, a few mobile phones. He got bored and plopped down in one of the leather chairs, John doing the same after looking at the picture for a while.

"What are they like?" John asked after a moment.

"My parents? Ordinary. Boring. Not much to them." Sherlock said, staring blankly in front of him, watching the courtyard through the window. "Mycroft is here." 

John craned his head to see if what he said was true, and sure enough, a black car drove up to the house. After a few moments, they heard the front door open and Sterling greeted him. The house was so quiet and empty, you could hear footsteps from the other side of the house echoing off the walls. 

Mycroft walked into the room, Sterling at his heels carrying a tray of tea.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen." 

"Hello, brother." Sherlock said, desperately wanting to get to the point.

John nodded at the eldest Holmes brother.

Mycroft sat in his chair, taking his tea and sipping it before folding his hands in his lap professionally.

"So, shall we discuss the matter at hand or finish our tea first?" Mycroft sneered.

"I need your help in finding Sebastian Moran." Something clicked in John's head, and it sounded so familiar. Like it was on his mind, but he couldn't remember why.

"I've been notified that he was on the move this morning. Have you finally decided to get around to it?" 

"He has Detective Inspector Lestrade." John's eyes widened. _That's why we're here._

"I'm aware. I expected a visit from you, little brother."

"Where does he have him?"

"Well we can't exactly know everything, but I do know his known hideouts. And there's still the off chance that he went somewhere else. Somewhere more...symbolic. He's obviously trying to get your attention, and now he's certainly gotten it." Mycroft drawled. 

Sherlock's thoughts clicked into place. His eyes went wide as saucers and his mouth was practically gaping.

"I know where he is, John." Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and tugged him out of his chair, dragging him behind him as he ran down the stairs.

"No need to thank me!" Mycroft shouted after them. They climbed into Mycroft's black limousine and Sherlock shouted an address at the driver. He started the engine and Sherlock instructed him to go as fast as he can. 

"Where is he?" John said, closing the car door.

"Where it all started. Where we first met Moriarty. He kidnapped you so he could meet me. _Strapped a fucking bomb to your chest._ He knew my weaknesses, and so does Moran." Sherlock hissed, clenching his fists.

"I have my gun, if we need it." John said timidly.

"We will."

-

John looked at Sherlock intently, watching him muttering to himself. He couldn't make out what he was saying, but it was something between insults and ramblings about Moriarty. John hadn't been told about him as much as he had hoped, since he was the reason that Sherlock left for 2 years. He always wanted to know what that had been like, but once he found the letter he wrote to Sherlock during that time, he didn't want to know. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and put his fingers to his temples.

"No, no, not that. It's not that, STOP IT!" Sherlock shouted. John jumped and put his hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Sherlock." John said softly. Sherlock tensed under his grip and pulled away quickly, anger flashing across his face.

"This is my fault, John. I killed Sebastian Moran a year ago. He's supposed to be dead. I shot him myself. Do not comfort me, I can hear it in your voice. Lestrade may die if we don't get there in time. Moran knows that I figured out that it was him." Sherlock rambled. John furrowed his brow and put his hand on Sherlock's thigh.

"It's not your fault. You didn't know this would happen and you certainly wouldn't let him take Greg if you could help it. It's okay, we'll get to him. I've got my gun, you've got that brain of yours, you know. It's admittedly more use than my gun is."

"Finally someone agrees with me." Sherlock scoffed. John laughed at his bluntness.

John never removed his hand. Sherlock placed his own over John's after a while.

They arrived at the address Sherlock gave the driver. It was a seemingly abandoned building. It was a simple white  building with a blue stripe across the top. There were glass doors in the front. They tried them, but it was locked. Sherlock found a back entrance and kicked it open. The door opened to a small hallway with a flimsy door at the end. A chemical scent filled their noses and Sherlock sniffed the air loudly.

"He's been here." Sherlock said. John pulled his gun out and cocked it, his hands steady. Sherlock opened the door, John squinting as a bright light filled the dark hallway. John peeked around Sherlock to get a look at the room. It was a swimming pool, one for working out and swim meets. It was lit by rows of fluorescent lights.  Sherlock stopped and went stiff. 

Lestrade was tied to a chair at the end of a diving board. It was tipped slightly, and his arms and legs were tied together with rope. John reached in his pocket for his knife and made his way towards Lestrade.

"John!" Sherlock shouted, warning him. John looked at Sherlock and saw that they weren't alone. John's heart stopped. Sebastian Moran stood there, his red hair like fire against Sherlock's pale skin. His gun was pressed against Sherlock's temple. John raised his gun and pointed it at Moran's head.

"Ah, ah, ah. That's not how that works. Drop it before I shoot his brains out." Moran said, pressing the gun harder against Sherlock's head. Sherlock had a completely blank look on his face.

"Alright, I'm dropping it," John said cautiously, setting his gun on the tile floor.

"You alright, Greg?" John said, not taking his eyes off Moran and Sherlock.

"Yeah, I'm good." He said quietly. He struggled in his chair, but stopped once the diving board shook from movement.

Sherlock was blinking rapidly. John didn't notice at first, but he saw Sherlock trying to tell him something. **Morse code?**

 **GET HIM.** Sherlock said, looking at Lestrade.

John gulped and looked between Lestrade and Sherlock.

"Listen, whatever you want, you don't have to kill him for it." John negotiated, ignoring Sherlock's communication.

 **STOP.** Sherlock blinked rapidly.

"Oh, believe me, I do. Jim wanted this. Who am I to deny his dying wish?" Moran said. "And sorry, but I've got to kill you and the inspector over there. Can't have you coming after me, now can we?" Moran cocked the gun and Sherlock clenched his jaw tightly.

"WAIT!" John and Lestrade shouted in unison. John's blood was pounding through his veins. He moved towards them and Moran pointed the gun at John. He held Sherlock by the neck, who was scratching at his attacker's arm. Sherlock was rapidly blinking at John again.

 **NOW, JOHN.** Sherlock nodded at John and Sherlock broke free from Moran's grasp. He kicked his legs out from under him and John lunged for his gun, picking it up and aiming it right at Moran. Sherlock wrestled with him and finally got the gun from Moran's hand, pinning him on the ground with his hands behind his back and put the gun against the back of his head.

"You are weak. A frankly poor excuse for an assassin, and a disgusting excuse of a man." Sherlock spat in his ear. Moran struggled beneath him and John rushed to Lestrade. He edged out on the diving board, careful not to wobble it. Lestrade was terrified and tired. The board shook and John stopped in his tracks. He pulled the knife from his pocket and tossed it carefully to Greg. Lestrade angled the knife so he could cut the first rope. John looked at Sherlock, who was calling someone on his phone now, the gun still against Sebastian's head. Lestrade got him arms untied, but as he moved to get to his legs, the chair tipped and he fell into the water, knife in his hands and still attached to the wooden chair.

"Shit!" John gasped and ran to the edge of the diving board and diving into the freezing water. He opened his eyes, the scene blurry from the water. He found the knife and started working on the rope, sawing it as quickly as he could. Lestrade struggled to get free. He was letting the air out of his lungs, and John saw the bubbles floating to the surface as he struggled to hold his breath. He struggled while John worked at the thick rope.

Lestrade went still. John took a few more seconds to saw through the last strand, and he grabbed Lestrade by his waist up to the surface. He hauled himself over the edge and pulled Lestrade onto the cold tile. Sherlock and Moran were in the same spot, Sherlock unable to move and unable to speak. John started CPR and pumped his chest. 

"Come on, Greg." John pleaded. No response. After a few more pumps, Lestrade choked and spat out water, coughing violently.

"Thank god." John sighed. He looked at Sherlock, who was smiling at him warmly. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and John couldn't help but smile back, his chest warming despite his freezing clothes clinging to him.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Sherlock." Nothing.

"Sherlock."

"Sherlock!" John hissed. Sherlock looked up from his computer and glared at John.

"Can you move these experiments somewhere else? They're taking up the whole counter. I need room to make dinner." John said, putting his hands on his hips and staring at Sherlock expectantly.

"They are sitting there for a reason, doctor. If moved, it may contaminate the experiment. No could you kindly occupy yourself with something a bit more productive? You haven't done laundry in 2 weeks and you're wearing the jumper Mrs. Hudson gave you, which you hate." Sherlock said, his face blank as he scanned the computer screen.

John huffed. He didn't feel like starting a domestic. He took Sherlock's advice and got started with his laundry, carrying his laundry basket down to Mrs. Hudson's flat and knocking, hearing her chirp. She stood in the kitchen, washing a few dishes, the rest of the room spotless.

"I was wondering when you'd come wondering down here, John. Give that here, I'll put it in the wash for you." Mrs. Hudson fussed, grabbing the basket from John's arms and disappearing into the hallway. He heard her turn the washer on, and then the shut of a metal door after she put the clothes in. She came back, turning the faucet on once more and scrubbing the remaining plate.

"Would you like help?" John offered.

"Don't you worry, dear, I've got it. I think I heard Sherlock throw something, so you might as well go check if hes hurt himself or my poor wooden floor again." She said, giving a wink and turning back to the sink.

John reached the top of the stairs to find Sherlock frantically throwing his experiments in the trash. He was muttering furiously and pacing, some of his experiments surrounded by broken glass and liquids that were probably chemically unstable.

"Sherlock?" John asked cautiously.

"It doesn't make sense John. It doesn't. I expected it to be quicker than this. A memory here and there. When you look at me, all I can see how empty you are. I can see that you don't know. You have no idea." Sherlock ranted, half yelling.

"No idea about what?" John asked, closing the door to the flat so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't hear everything.

"Before. How we were. You don't know. I could show you. Come see." Sherlock stomped to his room and opened the book John had discovered. He threw it all at John's feet.

"I have more. It wasn't just me. I have proof." Sherlock dug a small wooden box out from under his bed and dumped the contents onto his bed. He picked up a paper. A sticky note. Sherlock read off the notes frustratedly.

" 'Sherlock, I want you to know I love you. There's takeout in the fridge. Have a good day.' 'Sherlock, I love you, but stop ruining my tupperware with tissue samples.' 'Sherlock, I'll be at work tonight, get some sleep, I left dinner in the microwave, and I'll see you in the morning. I love you.' 'Sherlock, I know you love me, you don't have to leave it in code everywhere, ridiculous man. I love-' "

"Sherlock!" John said, grabbing Sherlock's wrists and looking him in the eye. Sherlock looked down at John, furrowing his brow.

"I know. I know I love-loved you. I have since the day I woke up from the accident. These notes; they're all very nice. I love them. I must confess I read a few. But I didn't need them to know what I had felt for you is-was real." John smiled at Sherlock, who was looking very confused and deep in thought.

"You..?" He opened his eyes and studied John's face.

"Even if I never get my memories of you back. I know what I know now and..nothing has changed about my feelings for you, Sherlock." Sherlock inhaled sharply and went still. John laughed a bit. It was completely silent.

Sherlock bent down and connected their lips softly. John froze, but melted into the kiss after he felt the familiar pang of his heart. He went dizzy.

-

"The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

"That was amazing."

"It's all..fine."

"Dinner?"

"Starving."

"Are you alright? You okay?"

"People will definitely talk.."

"I'm not gay."

"Well, I am. And look at us both."

"Hamish. John Hamish Watson, if you're looking for baby names."

"You..looking all mysterious with your..cheekbones."

"I don't have friends. I've just got one."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, would you do this for me?"

"My best friend...Sherlock Holmes..is dead."

"I don't shave for Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm your best..friend?"

"Yes, of course you are. Of course you're my best friend."

"The bravest kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

"We will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead of us to prove that."

"Because..you chose her."

"To the very best of times, John-"

-

"John? Are you alright?" John was snapped back into reality. He was sitting on the end of Sherlock's bed, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock."

"What is it?" Sherlock placed a hand on John's forehead and observed him closely.

"Sherlock!" John jumped up and threw his arms around Sherlock, sobbing into his house coat.

"You're making me slightly alarmed, John."

"I remembered. I remember everything, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine what that was like.." John cried. Sherlock smiled, tears springing to his eyes. He hugged John back tightly, realizing the weight lifting off his shoulders.

"I love you so much, Sherlock. I will always love you." John sobbed. He stroked Sherlock's curls and felt a shake go through him. John pulled away briefly and wiped Sherlock's cheeks.

"Everything is okay. I'm back. You haven't lost me again." Sherlock smiled at these words and dipped his head to kiss John, their tears mixing on their flushed cheeks.

\---------------------------

WOOOOO! I've been writing this for 2 years now. After editing and stuff, it only came down to 4 chapters, but im so proud and happy about this work. And now I'm finally finished! It was truly wonderful writing it. Thank you to everyone who read this, I wouldn't be here without you all.

-Felix.

 


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